


Loss

by glacis



Category: X Files
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:12:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A character study of Mulder and Scully and how they might deal with the holidays after the losses they've suffered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loss

_Loss_

It was a time for family. A time for love, and laughter, and bright lights, and crinkling paper and pretty, sparkling ornaments, and curling ribbons and long, warm hugs.

He tried to remember the last time it had been a time like that for him. But over twenty years is a long time to try to see past, and no matter how hard he tried or how perfect his memory was, sometimes, pieces went missing. And even when he could remember the words, he couldn't quite capture the inflection, the timbre of the voices. The words whispered through his head, but left his heart empty, and cold. Fox Mulder fidgeted restlessly on the worn couch, flipping the television on again, muting the sound and watching the images with blind eyes. Another Christmas. What joy.

 

It was almost funny, in a painful sort of way. Melissa was the least Catholic and the most spiritual person in her family. Had been. She couldn't get used to speaking of her sister in the past tense. It still didn't make sense. While she managed to maintain the facade of strength in public, in her own mind she couldn't quite carry it off. She was trained to deal with strong emotion in an orderly fashion, to shut it off until she could find the time, space, and energy to confront it. But this, this she couldn't just put in a box, to take down and dissect when her schedule allowed her that luxury. This was an ache that gnawed at the back of her brain constantly, and there was no ignoring it. A small, icy voice that kept insisting over and over and over that the wrong one had been taken. It should have been her, not Missy. Never Missy.

She was not looking forward to Christmas. She would go, because her mother had been through enough pain and loss over the last year and she would not add to that burden. She would turn away the little voice, and pretend to be strong. She'd watch football with her brothers and cook with her Mom, and support her family and try to hold back the ache of looking at two empty chairs where there should have been loved ones. She wanted to argue with Ahab again. She wanted to get into another 'discussion' with Melissa. She didn't want to look in her mother's eyes and see understanding. Not now. Not when she didn't understand. Another Christmas, unlike any she had ever had to endure. Her fists clenched at the thought. She had never considered the holidays something to endure before.

 

They'd skipped the annual Christmas party, and Skinner hadn't said a word. Mulder was meeting her at her Mother's house on Christmas morning, but she was driving over Saturday and staying the weekend. A three day weekend for the holiday. Most of the denizens of the J. Edgar Hoover building were happy with that ... more time off, and all in a clump. The agents in the basement didn't share the general sentiment.

Friday, before the long weekend, and all the paperwork was done. Mulder leaned back in his chair and glanced over at his partner, who was rather absently studying a medical journal. He didn't think she was getting much from the article, however, since she hadn't turned a page in over ten minutes. He felt itchy, and cranky, not unusual reactions to the holiday season for him. The silence in the office was beginning to get to him.

"Not a creature was stirring, not even a Reticulan." His abrupt voice caused Scully to start, and she swiveled her head to stare at him. "True, it's not quite the night before Christmas, Scully, but then you take what you can get, right?"

"Any plans for this weekend, Mulder?" As usual, she didn't respond directly to his attempts at humor, although he knew from the curve of her lip and her determinedly straight face that she appreciated it.

"No, not really." Oops. Wrong thing to say. He knew it as soon as the words left his mouth.

"You are invited to my Mom's, you know." She ignored the small shake of his head and forged on, "You know she practically considers you one of her own, and I'm sure she'd like to see more of you." I could use the support, she nearly added, but managed to keep the words behind her teeth.

"Thanks, Scully, but I need to call my Mom, and, uhm, there are some people I have to see." He could stop by the Lone Gunmen, bring over some Hickory Farms munchies or something. He didn't know how to explain to her that he would have a hard time pretending that everything was okay in front of her family, even for one day. There was no way in hell he could do it for three. How could he face Margaret, not to mention Scully's brothers, for that long without letting them know that it was all his fault? Melissa Scully would not be dead if not for him. Scully wouldn't be living with a fear that she'd die from some horrible cancer, or be abducted again, if she hadn't become his partner. He had a poisonous touch, and he knew it. First Samantha, then his father, his mother barely able to talk to him, his partner's sister dead, his partner terrorized, and it was all his fault. God. Yeah. He wanted to inflict that on a family already thoroughly traumatized because of his presence in their life. Why Margaret even talked to him, he couldn't understand.

The silence had stretched out again, and he lifted his eyes to see her staring at him, reading him as easily as if he'd spoken his thoughts aloud. The pain in her eyes tore another chunk from his heart, and he tightened his lips and looked away.

"You know me, Scully. I manage to keep myself busy." His voice was rougher than he'd hoped, but he managed to get the right dismissive, 'conversation closed' tone, and she took the hint.

"Well, I'll see you Monday morning, then." She gave up pretending with the journal and tossed it into her inbox. Picking up her briefcase, she caught up her jacket and headed for the door. As it closed quietly behind her, he gave her an answer.

"I'll be there." He sounded like his throat hurt.

 

It hadn't been as hard as she'd thought it would be, in some ways, and immeasurably harder in others. It was a Christmas unlike any she had ever had, and she had the sinking feeling that it would always be so. The conversation flowed, but there were odd little gaps where the missing viewpoint was felt, when Missy should have been there to pipe up with an off-the-wall observation, or her Dad should have settled a point with a few well placed words. They all felt those little gaps, and the reactions varied. Her brothers, so like their father, would get a stern look, and try to fill the silence as best they could. The awkwardness would pass, and the little lances of pain would subside. Margaret was quieter than normal, and Dana, even more so. Mrs. Scully watched her brood, and Dana was very aware of her mother's worry, and her determined efforts to make it as 'normal' a Christmas as possible. She did the best she could to keep up the illusion of normalcy.

Until Christmas Eve.

She stared at the tree, small colored lights twinkling and reflecting all the colors of the spectrum off the tinsel, off the rounded curves of the ornaments. The boys -- well, she supposed one would call them men, but they were The Boys to her -- were in the den debating some arcane rule in basketball and why multisport athletes would never make it in the pro world. Margaret was in the kitchen, stirring up her cinnamon spiced apple cider, perfect to cut the chill. And Dana was staring at the tree, watching the colors run together as her eyes softly filled and spilled over. She hadn't talked to Mulder about this, although he had made it more than clear that he was there for her. He had his own burdens to bear, and he worried about her too much as it was. Her Mom was barely holding it together, and Dana felt compelled to be strong for her, not break down and give her one more thing to worry about. And her brothers were just not her chosen confidants when it came to discussing deep emotions. They felt them, she had no doubt of that, but they didn't talk about them. Past was past, had to get through it, and the best way to do that was to just do it. Not exactly wellsprings of emotional support. Just ... do it.

Great advice when starting an exercise program. Not too helpful when you were faced with trying to hold together the holes in your heart.

She didn't see her mother pause in the doorway, didn't see the concern and the love in her eyes. Margaret came up softly behind her and quietly handed her a mug of cider.

"You need to talk about it, Dana."

"Maybe, Mom." Her voice was clogged, but she didn't notice, still staring at the tree, cradling the warm mug in her cold hands. "Not yet. Not now. Not ..." She nodded helplessly at the trappings of Christmas spread about the room. "Later."

Margaret curled an arm around her daughter in a warm hug, and Dana lay her head on her mother's shoulder. With the touch, a few of the open tears healed, but they were few in comparison to the wounds that remained. The women, so much alike, stood in silence and stared at the twinkling lights, each lost in her own thoughts.

 

Frohicke liked the summer sausage. Byers went for the dried fruit. And Langley really enjoyed the cheese. It was nice to know his friends were easy to please.

Frohicke had invited him to spend Christmas Eve with them, but he had partaken of as much Christmas cheer as he could for the moment. He excused himself, using the truth, that he had to call his mother, but when he got back to his cold apartment he found himself staring at the fish instead of picking up the phone.

What could he say to her? She was so fragile. She always had been, and now, after what had happened this past year, she resonated like fine crystal. To think that she had gotten her daughter back, only to lose her, seemingly by her son's choice, after losing her so long ago by her husband's choice. She hadn't seemed to hold it against him, but he never had been able to tell her that the woman she'd embraced as Samantha hadn't been. And then, no matter how she had never forgiven her husband, to lose him in the same year ... he swallowed heavily and reached for the telephone.

Twenty uncomfortable minutes later, he hung up and stared at the fish again. She hadn't had much to say, but then, neither had he. She seemed relieved that he was spending Christmas with the Scully's, and he had been as relieved that she would be going to her sister's home for Chanukah. They just didn't connect. But then, they never really had. He thought back to the quiet, painful holidays from his youth, and suddenly wondered how Scully was doing. This year, he had the sad feeling, her holiday would be much more like his usual than her usual. Without giving himself time to think about it, he reached for his cellular and hit the 'Scullybutton.'

She answered on the eighth ring, right before he was going to admit it was a bad idea and disconnect.

"Scully." Her voice sounded thick, as if she had been crying.

"Hi. It's me."

"Mulder." She didn't sound very receptive, and he had the sinking feeling that he'd interrupted something.

"I'm sorry. You're busy. I just wanted to say, I'll, um, see you tomorrow." As he pulled the phone from his ear and reached for the off button he heard her voice. Reluctantly, he lifted the handset back to his ear.

"Mulder? Are you still there?"

"Yeah," he replied sheepishly.

"Are you okay?" Concern colored her tone, and she seemed more focused on the conversation.

"I don't want to intrude." He meant it.

"You're not." Her tone gentled. "Did you call your Mom?"

"Yeah." Not a subject he really wanted to talk about. "How're things going?"

"Okay." Silence over the line, and he let it pool, hearing something in her voice that encouraged him to think that she needed it. That maybe she needed to talk. After a little while, she did just that. "It's ... I don't know. It's weird. Incomplete. There's something, no, someone missing. And it's almost like they're here by their absence." He found himself nodding. "Mom's in the den with my brothers, and they're drinking cider, and getting ready to go to church. I'm just sitting here. The tree ... the garland, the carols on the cd player. It's like some sort of time warp, like everything's normal only slipped a little to one side. Like Missy's in the bathroom, and Ahab's on the back porch with his pipe, and any minute now they're going to walk in the room, and Missy's gonna fuss with the ornaments and Ahab's going to make some joke about Miss Perfect and ... god, Mulder, this feels so strange." Her voice had tapered off until it was nearly a whisper, and he could hear the tears in her words.

"It's going to take some time, Scully." A cliché, but a heartfelt one, and he gripped the receiver tightly, wishing he could say it more eloquently.

"When does it start to hurt less, Mulder?" You're the psychiatrist, damn it, help me. Unspoken, but clear, and urgent.

"Eventually. It gets, I don't know how to explain it, but it gets less often. It still hurts. It's never going to not hurt, Scully. But the time between the hurting, it gets longer, and eventually the good memories don't hurt quite so much, and you can remember them better. Sometimes you even laugh at something you thought you had forgotten. Something will trigger a memory, and you'll find yourself laughing. Right now, that same memory would make you cry." His own voice softened, and became almost coaxing. "Give it some time, Scully. It's still fresh. And it's bleeding. It's going to be hard. But you're not alone in this. Okay? Know that. Know you're not alone." He was nearly pleading.

She didn't say anything for a long moment, then her voice came through more strongly than before. "I know, Mulder." He smiled at the strength he heard. "Listen, I have to get ready, we're heading off to church. I'll see you tomorrow. Drive carefully, there's a lot of snow on the road."

"I promise," he grinned in spite of himself.

"And Mulder?" He made an interrogatory noise. "Thanks, partner." The grin softened, and he took a deep breath.

"Any time, partner." Now, if only there was some way he could believe his own words.

 

Christmas day dawned clear and bright, and he stopped on his way to the car and squinted up into the cerulean sky.

"Happy Chanukah, Samantha," he whispered, then carefully placed the small pile of brightly wrapped presents in the passenger seat and pointed the car toward the Scully house. For the first time in a very long time, he almost felt as though he belonged, the weight of loss and grief that haunted him lightened slightly by the conversation he had had with his partner the night before. Maybe, after all, there was something to this time bit. Memories were supposed to fade, even though the love never did. It was what made loss bearable. A sharp pain lanced through him suddenly, like a stitch in his side, at the thought of his little sister, and he sighed. Scully would be feeling that kind of pain this year. Maybe by being with her through it, he would himself be less alone. And maybe, this year, he could remember the love through the pain of the loss.

the end

This story is for my Mom, Joyce, who defined Christmas for me and was keenly missed especially on my first Yule without her. The words of wisdom are from Wendi, and Janis, and the friends who have kept me from being alone. With love, and appreciation.


End file.
